


Of Flesh and Bone

by Zeto



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dubious Consent, M/M, One sided, Unrequited Love, angsty, implied Lucius/Severus, snaco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeto/pseuds/Zeto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years down the road, Draco finds out the hard way, that Snape is still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Flesh and Bone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravenna_c_tan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenna_c_tan/gifts).



> I may have snuck a line or two from Inception in here somewhere. :P My thanks to TK for the beta. The rest of the mistakes are mine. This fic was written ages ago (four years?) for Ravenna_c_tan for a fest, I think.

 

~*~

 

Draco is twenty four years old.

He is twenty four and he has never felt older, nor more alone. Lucius hadn't made it. Despite being spared from Azkaban, the fall from grace had affected him more deeply than Draco or Narcissa could ever have fathomed. Physically, the head of the Malfoy family had been fine. But something inside had undergone a transformation, a metamorphosis. Invisible, irrevocable. Lucius Malfoy had finally suffered a blow from which he could not recover, and his fragile empire had finally fallen like a house of cards falling prey to a strong gust of wind.

 

~*~

 

Lucius had slowly changed from the proud tall man people feared, revered and hated into a pitiful ghost of a shell, a mere shade of his former self. Narcissa had tried very hard to maintain a cheerful facade, to pretend everything was all right as the family bore on in silence. But Draco had found it impossible to stomach. Their manor, once resplendent and lavish, now creaked and moaned with the ghosts of those who had been murdered behind closed doors. It had become a tomb, and Draco had come to loathe every room, every corridor, every mirror and painting. He had come to despise the opulent carpets, the rich, velvet drape and curtains, the crystal chandeliers. A gilded, gleaming cage but a cage nonetheless.

Draco had hated it. Every moment of it. But if there was only one thing he had gained from the choices he had made and the knowledge attained too late, it had been that in the end, the only people on his side were his flesh, bone and blood. In the end, he had only had his mother and father be there for him. So the moment he had finished his 'eighth year' at school, Draco had returned home and resigned himself to an empty life in an empty manor. Certainly, his father and mother still walked the halls but some days they had felt more like paper-thin waifs or murky ghosts than corporeal flesh.

It seemed as though they had a personal Dementor stalking the very halls and rooms of the manor, slowly draining what little joy had been left.

Draco had lived in the manor, day in and day out, feeling as though he was fading into the wallpaper. And perhaps he had been. Perhaps one day, he would have woken up and found himself trapped in the walls, in the very brick, glass and wood of the manor, nothing more than a dusty memory.

It had been the morning of his twentieth birthday when his mother had come to him, and told him to leave.

Draco had protested. A feeble, token attempt to persuade his mother to change her mind. But in the end, he had packed a small suitcase and left for London, hoping to make a name for himself and restore the reputation of the Malfoy's, hoping that he doesn't die within those walls a jaded and disillusioned man.

 

~*~

 

Wizards and witches it seems, have long memories, especially when they've been wronged. Everyone seemed to take a perverse pleasure in kicking him out of their establishments. Some of them don't even let him get his name out before they tell him they're not hiring. Others, the worst of the lot, allow him an interview, ask for references and even go so far as to give him a tiny tendril of hope before they kick him out. The smug smiles on their faces, tell him otherwise; they _are_ looking to hire but not Malfoy scum.

 

~*~

 

Draco is twenty four years old, and he hasn't once set foot back on the soil of the manor. He's come close a few times, to putting ink to paper, spinning falsehoods about his life and his job, making it appear as though things are fine, as though he's not wasting away in London, and sending an owl to his mother about a visit, but at the last minute, he always changes his mind.

It's taken him two years but he finally gets hired. An elderly lady has him stocking shelves, sweeping floors and taking inventory in her dusty, old shop full of forgotten curios. It's undignified, beneath a Malfoy, but when one has nothing left, it's really not that undignified after all, is it?

Mrs. Beaumont eventually comes to trust him and leaves him to close shop each night; her aching bones can't handle the long hours anymore and her own lazy son 'has better things' to be doing.

One night, Draco gets caught in a sudden snowfall after closing up. He has no desire to return to an empty home, heat up his lonely meal for one and eat his pitiful food, so he ducks into a dimly-lit pub. He expects to be kicked out, asked to leave if he's lucky or physically removed from the tavern if he's not.

Turns out the barkeep doesn't care so long as he has Galleons to spend and he doesn't bother the other patrons.

That's how it starts.

One Firewhiskey at a little pub after a long day at work. It burns on the way down, settling in the pool of his stomach like liquid fire. It warms him up and allows him to forget the failures that litter his life.

Soon it turns into a drink or two after work once a week or so.

Then it's a couple of drinks a couple times a week.

Then it's three drinks. Four. Five.

Pretty soon, if Draco isn't at work, he's in the pub. It's better than being alone, and there's the added bonus of not having to think. About his life. About his past. About the mistakes that continue to plague him at the corners of his consciousness. About the latest letter that's arrived by owl from his mother: Lucius died in his sleep. She writes him this missive but they both know the truth; Lucius Malfoy had died a long, long time ago.

He's just finished his fifth drink tonight. Draco morosely studies the bottom of his mug. Maybe it has something to offer him, but no, it is discouragingly empty and the last dregs mock him incessantly instead. He signals to the quiet bartender and asks for another.

The broad-shouldered young wizard takes one look at him, considers the glassy look in his eyes and slurs of his words and shakes his head.

Draco's eyes darken and his jaw clenches. Perhaps it's the alcohol clouding his mind, but he foolishly pulls his wand out and--

A fist closes around his wrist, the grip hard and painful enough to leave reddening marks on his pale flesh.

“You stupid, hare-brained boy,” a familiar voice sneers. “Surely you've lost your wits if you think you can get away with hexing someone, given your position in the Wizarding World.”

Draco looks up, mind swimming with liquor. Recognition flashes through his eyes before the booze decides to finally take over and he passes out. 

 

~*~

 

When he wakes the next morning, a drum playing a merry tune along the front of his skull. A rhythm-less, offkey tune. Rolling over, Draco shrinks from the bright glare of morning sweeping in through the window. He licks his dry lips and then runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth; it tastes like sawdust.

Biting back a groan, he brings a hand over his face and wipes his eyes. His memory leads him on a merry chase and the events from the night before come back to him in a hazy rush.

Jackknifing, Draco's eyes widen. The sudden movement has him groaning. This, he decides dimly, is what regret must feel like. A relentless, pounding staccato in his head.

The pain doesn't dissuade his thoughts though. Draco is absolutely certain he saw Professor Snape last night. Black, piercing eyes, pale skin and black, lanky hair, the man is distinctly memorable. And in Draco's eyes, regardless of what happened all those years ago, regardless of where they are in life now, the man will always remain his professor.

Gingerly rising from his bed, Draco is careful not to jostle his head. He meanders to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. It probably won't help his hangover, but it wouldn't hurt. As he adds a touch of cream to his drink, he realizes how disparagingly empty is his fridge. Carrying the hot mug to the small, little living room, he's about to take a sip when he stops dead in the doorway.

What little colour his face has is lost completely at the sight of the apparition sitting in his ratty, old armchair. The mug falls from nerveless fingers, plummeting to the floor and shattering upon impact. An expletive explodes from his lips when the scalding liquid splashes his feet.

Snape, of flesh and bone, is perched on his chair. He raises an eyebrow, eyeing the mess on the floor.

Draco opens his mouth, finds himself unable to think of anything to say and snaps his mouth shut. It takes a few moments for the gears in his brain to start turning.

“You...you're dead,” he finally blurts.

“I beg to differ,” Snape dryly replies. “Seeing as I am sitting here, in this dismal, cold little flat of yours.”

Draco straightens his posture, spine stiffening with something he hasn't felt in a long time, something that if he were to examine a little more closely, he might qualify as anger or rage. “Yes, well, no one is holding you here against your will. If you're here to insult me, don't bother.”

“Perhaps,” comes the voice, silky as Draco remembers, and just as deadly in its wit and barbed reply, “I wouldn't have to be here if you weren't trying to do yourself in.”

“I am doing no such thing. Don't tell me the Vow is still in effect? You fulfilled _that_ duty years ago.”

Somehow, two minutes with Snape has Draco reverting back to his former self. Filled with fury and an underlying wisp of fear, he feels sixteen again.

“I see you still just an irrational, little _boy_.”

Clenching a fist, Draco's eyes fall to the floor, zeroing in on the broken ceramic shards strewn about his feet.

“Why are you here?” the blond finally asks through gritted teeth.

There is a long pause.

Draco resists the urge to fidget, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek instead.

“Despite...what you may think,” Snape says slowly, “I am not always a cruel man.”

Something finally occurs to Draco. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Because unlike you, I haven't been living in this dumpy squalor, filled with regret, waiting to die alone.” 

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“If your father were--”

“My father is dead.”

Snape hardly looks surprised at the news. It hits Draco like a sledgehammer to a brick wall.

“You--you knew. How...?”

“Because I was there.” 

_Unlike you._ The two words hang unspoken, between them, like a ghost or a heavy mist cloaking a city.

Draco's mind jump-starts, ideas, truths and half-formed notions spinning like a vortex. “My mother asked you to--”

“Your mother had nothing to do with it,” comes the starkly-cryptic reply.

“You...and my father?” Draco chokes out as he gets it. Finally.

“Do you have something against that?” inquires the older wizard.

The blond's jaw works, lips twisting and pressing into a flat line. He is certain his nails have drawn blood, digging into his palms as they are.

Snape studies his former student, hooded eyes glittering, calculating. “Or perhaps...you are jealous?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Draco retorts as he hastily pulls his wand out and finally spells away the wasted tea and broken mug. The action gives him an excuse, a moment to recollect himself and try and turn the tables. “You disappeared for years. How? Why?”

“You think I was lying or joking when I told you simpletons I could teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and put a stopper on death? It would appear you've learned nothing. You disappoint me, Draco.”

“Well, if I'm so disappointing, why don't you just leave then?”

In a flash, Snape is on his feet and across the room. His hands shoot out and lock onto Draco's wrists, startling the other into dropping his wand. It clatters against the floor and rolls away. The younger wizard tries to break free, push Snape away, but instead, he finds himself shoved against the wall, one arm locked and barred across his neck.

“Do not mistake me,” hisses Snape, pressing his arm against Draco's throat, cutting off his supply of oxygen. “I can be kind but do not provoke me, Draco.”

Draco chokes, Adam's apple bobbing as he viciously tries to draw in breath. He grabs Snape's arm, struggling violently, desperately. It doesn't take long for little black spots to swim across his vision, edges of his sight graying out. He wonders if this is Snape's intent; to kill him in his own flat. He hopes not but Draco's always known he's been very talented at raising tempers. Even as he summons his anger, he discovers it doesn't give him enough strength to break the hold Snape has over him. And, to his sinking realization, Draco finds himself incredibly aroused. He's hard to the point of pain. So much so that he actually stops fighting.

Snape laughs, the sound cruel and cutting; he knows exactly why Draco has stopped resisting. He can feel the rock-hard evidence pressing against his thigh. “Is this what Lucius' precious heir, his only son has been reduced to? Rutting shamelessly in this squalid, ramshackle, little box? No better than a common whore on the streets, I see. I thought you were better than that, but it seems I am mistaken.”

Draco can't even answer, thrusting hard against his former professor. His eyes slide shut as the heat and friction between them rises and rises. He feels a lithe, warm hand cup him through his slacks, pressing against his erection. Then deft digits undo his zipper and snake inside, sliding around his arousal. Draco sucks in a stilted breath, biting down hard on his lower lip. He fights down a moan, rutting against his former professor with undisguised want. It doesn't take much to get him off; lithe fingers and hot breath against his ear, with softly taunting words, and then his climax hits him, hard and sudden, soiling his trousers. He collapses against the wall, inhaling great gulps of air, when Snape abruptly pulls away.

Snape's next words echo in his mind and throughout the room even as the older man steps back, spells the mess from his fingers, the rest of him still pristine and unruffled as ever, and disapparates without warning. The words sting, delivered with their usual vitriol and poison. Draco is certain they will remain imprinted in his memory for a long time to come.

“You're nothing but a child still.”

 

~*~

 

That night, after closing up, he twists the store key in the lock and sets the wards before trodding off. As always, he enters the pub and takes his usual stool; the dirt and grime had long since stopped bothering him. Without a word, the barkeep has his drink for him. Firewhiskey, neat. He picks it up and stares at the amber liquid. Wishes it had something to say, wishes it could tell him what to do.

Instead, Snape's touch lingers in his mind, his words cutting like a sword. His scent persists in Draco's memories--was it only this morning? Just a few scant hours ago that those fathomless eyes were aimed at him, filled with a knowing, cruel amusement.

When the barkeep passes by, there is a single Galleon next to the glass of Firewhiskey.

Untouched.

 

END


End file.
